


Traditions

by Illidria



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Established Relationship, LLF Comment Project, Olivier!FamilyAU, Original Characters - Freeform, Suicide mention, abuse mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 15:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illidria/pseuds/Illidria
Summary: “I think there’s something under your feet.”He stopped walking, lifted one foot after the other and looked at his soles. Turning around to her, he shrugged.“Nothing out of the ordinary.”





	Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was based on a wish by tumblrs Juliaepevic, here is the original text posted alonside this fic:
> 
> Hey @juliaepavic, it is finally done :D
> 
> Sorry for the long hold-up, as always with fics like this I contacted my favourite guys to come over and explain things to me, so the fic can be vague, but not wrong or disrespectful. (Good news: they like my new ricecooker, bad news: I’m out of rice)  
> Should something have been “lost in translation”, be offensive because I used the english language wrong or didnt know a word had a second meaning, please write me, as english isnt my first language.  
> Warning for talked-about suicide and implied child abuse.  
> God, all of this sounds horrible, but I hope you like it anyway, even though it’s somewhat different from what you probably imagined.  
> Thank you for the prompt and…. have fun?

“Are you alone Ma’am?”

The voice sounded like it tried to sound forcibly calm, with a tension in it that spoke of fear. A man it was, clearly, but he`d heard steps of more people.

He heard his mother mutter, sounding scared beyond believe.

“WE ASKED YOU SOMETHING!”

The second man was fear personified, screaming at the top of his lungs.

_“Please, I know nothing. I know nothing. What do you want?!”_

He heard the tears in his mother’s voice, finally spilling now that he was well out of sight.

“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING …? SPEAK CLEARLY, YOU SPY!”

He did not know one of the words the man said, but understood that it wasn’t something nice. And he called his mother a spy, his father had explained to him what that was, but he knew his mother couldn’t be one. She wore no trench coat, she never sneaked around. And she wouldn’t be so afraid now.

“Gardner! Keep calm! Maybe she doesn’t speak amestrian? We should call in the translator!”

The first man spoke again, so desperately trying to keep calm. He felt afraid himself, wanted to protect his mother from these men, but she`d asked him to stay in the cellar. To not make a sound, whatever happens.

_“Please, please, I don’t know what you want! Please, I don’t know anything!”_

He heard steps again, softer, knew that his mother had moved. And then he heard a gun. Silently he hoped that his father and his brothers had returned, were scaring the men away.

“God damn Gardner! Are you out of your mind?!”

He heard scrambling feet, the first man repeatedly shouting at his partner to help him. He could hardly do anything in his hideout, did not understand what was happening. Had his father returned, were the men so scared because of his big gun? And why wasn’t his mother saying anything? Was she too afraid?

“Philip, now stop it! She`s beyond help now. Let`s get going!”

The other man retorted, angrily, almost as distressed as his mother had sounded a few moments ago.

“You think this is a joke Gardner?! Didn’t you see the toys? She was a mother, has kids, no drachman spy! Just someone living here, scared out of her mind! And you have my word, what you`ve done today, will not go without consequences!”

The other man huffed, screaming right back. He heard the fear, worse than before.

“Growing soft Philip? Just because you`ve got a couple of brats of your own? Try to have me demoted, I dare you!”

A scuffle, then the sound of the door. He waited for ten minutes, counted to ten as often as he could stand to and then went upstairs.

His mother looked like she was sleeping, but did not answer when he tried to wake her. There was blood, lots of it, on her dress and on her pants and on the floor. He lay down next to her, not understanding what was happening.

When his father came home an hour later, a man in a blue uniform with him, he hadn’t understood why his father started to cry.

* * *

“Who died, that you cut your hair? Your dignity?”

He should`ve expected things to go this way, wondered why he ever thought that it could be different. He`d been given the choice after this last school year: military or back to the “reservation”, working the mines. His father let go of the bottle, straightened himself up in his chair and looked at him, like he was a stain on the wall.

The father of his childhood would’ve probably understood his decision. This one didn’t.

“A friend from the school. Anik, Apaata’s son.”

He held his father’s angry gaze. He’d wanted to utilize this visit, talk to his brothers, who’d chosen differently. Wanted to speak with the elders of the community, visit some friends. Cry together with Anik’s mother, mourn the loss of one person more claimed by the horrors of re-education. He’d be trained in North City soon, had been given family-leave by a Major, too understanding for Buccaneers liking. Time to visit would be sparse, the will to, too.

“He heard that you turned traitor? Probably died of the pain that it caused him! Another brother of his, willing to shoot up innocents!”

His anger rose, but did nothing more than take his heart and strangle it. He`d chop firewood later, would relieve himself of this feeling that way. Forcefully he pulled his eyes away from where his mother had lain. His father’s moods he’d lived with for years, was accustomed to them when met with the teachers and “caregivers” at the boarding school. Though silently conforming in all horrible situations, he’d learned never to forget who he was. Silent rebellion, his oldest brother had said with a conspiratorial smile. The last two years without them, had been silent hell.

Staying calm, something he’d never managed before to such an extent, he felt his resolve strengthen.

“He hung himself in the schools’ chapel.”

There was no malicious intent inside of him, only the desire that his friends’ death should be respected. And the knowledge, that his own decision was right. Anik had always loved to be outside, had longed to see the sky, suffocating inside the stuffy rooms, the strange clothing, the constant disrespect to their gods. The knowledge of what was happening to their parents and loved ones back home, how it changed them, sometimes seemed to force hands. The differences too much to take. Anik had understood, that he hadn’t wanted to go back.

His father took another swig, silenced.

* * *

“I think there’s something under your feet.”

He stopped walking, lifted one foot after the other and looked at his soles. Turning around to her, he shrugged.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

She let it slide, sure she’d seen something, but willing to wait until she had him close. Watched him walk around, towelling his long hair after a shower, pulling on some boxers, shaving with the bathroom-door ajar. When he finally plopped down next to her on the bunk, she didn’t even try to hide her goal.

He laughed.

“There’s nothing stuck to my feet, Liv.”

Making sure anyways, her fingers ghosted over thin scars, looking him in the eye, an unsaid question in them that he could decline without a problem. He sat himself down more comfortably, watched her like a hawk when she settled against the other side of the bed, watching him equally as closely.

“You already know that I went to a boarding school, thanks to an education act, endorsed by the military?”

She nodded, remembering their talk well, stuck in a cave with him and some other cubs, their patrol seeking shelter from a sudden snowfall. A flask had made the rounds and some talked, among them Buccaneer and one of the cubs, both of mountain-tribe descent.

All children of the tribespeople were to be schooled in boarding schools, schedule and contents chosen by the amestrian military. The lands of their families were heavily cut back, fenced and their usual income, caribou breeding and herding, seized. His father worked in a mine now, as had the other cubs. Access to alcohol, usually reserved for high festivities, became plentiful. The depressed episodes of many, started through the fighting that brought on these changes, the occupation through the military and the many deaths following it, deepened with an addiction adding to them.

Word of mouth was, that the boarding schools were hell. But that day they hadn’t talked about it, the cub panicking at the notion alone. She`d made it possible for him to talk to a psychiatrist in North City, after pulling some strings. Miles and Buccaneer had alerted her to more cubs, in need of help. She’d done her best to make it possible.

“They did that?”

She tried to keep a neutral tone, wanted him to tell his story in peace. Did not want to colour his words with her emotions, expectations.

His usually cheerful voice, sounded uncharacteristically grim.

“We had to get up at a certain time every morning. If you weren’t up, they`d hit your feet with a cane. I overslept sometimes.”

She felt sick to her stomach, understanding how deep, how hard they must’ve hit, for the scars to be so stark against his skin. And to think that he was a kid at the time.

He shrugged.

“It’s not the worst thing, really. Are you sure you want to hear more?”

She wasn’t, but nodded anyway.

* * *

Braiding his son’s hair was one of his most favourite past-times.

They’d raised their kids like the wild mix they were, running between traditions and cultures and their best interests. Valentin right now, was no exception. With the thick black hair of his father, so tall that he already towered over his mother, yet with a face more angular, softer and beautiful, that many turned in the street upon seeing him. He usually shied away, not liking the attention, self-conscious beyond believe since hitting puberty. He was their second, their middle one, fifteen and old enough to ask about and understand the bad things.

The scars on the soles of his father’s feet. The trips to his grandfather, living close to the border, his father and uncles always flinching when he opened a bottle of water. Why a certain street in North City was avoided and why they took part in rituals to free trapped spirits at least once a year.

Why his father had been so staunchly against sending him to a boarding school, even though he’d desperately wanted to go.

They’d talked about that, often while he braided his son’s hair, proud that the boy knew so much, wanted to know so much, understood his father’s past. Took what he learned and in turn thought on a broader scale, discussed more informed and wanted to help those that had to endure such things. He was a compassionate boy, would grow up to be a good man and a good person.

Halfway through the long mass of hair, his son’s questions started to pour.

“Someone at school asked me today, why I don’t cut my hair short.”

A slight smile came to Buccaneers face, the sob-smile his wife called it, content and sentimental all at once.

“And what did you say?”

He saw his son shrug.

“That we only cut it short after a great loss, when someone we love dies for example. Or when something bad for the whole community happens and you want to show that it hurts you, even though it might not afflict you directly.”

Buccaneer nodded, approvingly. His son had listened and understood. Yet, he’d not gotten to his question.

“You remember that well. And what is it that you want to know?”

His son squirmed before him, seeming like an adult a moment ago, now more like his little brother, equipped with more energy than a normal human should probably have.

“Grandpa told me, that when you joined the military at sixteen, you cut off all of your hair.”

He heard the “why?” in his son’s words, took his time before answering. Calmly he spoke, pausing often, taking care with his words. Making sure to answer all asked, and un-asked questions.

“Father probably doesn’t remember, as it was so long ago. A friend of mine died, after we were finally discharged from the boarding school. I choose the military, because I didn’t want to live in the occupied lands. Didn’t want to become a miner, either. Maybe I was equipped with a good portion of idealism too.”

Chuckling, he listened to his son laugh, somewhat raspy, voice breaking often at the moment. He spoke some more, putting the finishing touches to Valentin’s braid, the boy surely wanting to get going soon.

“My brothers thought that I’d forsaken our way of life, cut my hair because of that. I think father thinks that to this day, but that wasn’t the reason. My friend, Anik was his sacred name, committed suicide. He could not piece together the things his parents had taught him, with what the people at the boarding school taught him. He couldn’t fathom that he was right just the way he was, not some abomination because he was a tribesman. I’d tried my very best to help him, but it hadn’t been enough. He hung himself, in the school’s chapel. I shaved my head after that. Do you understand now?”

Cutting of your hair meant mourning, shaving it off signified guilt, Valentin knew that.

“Sometimes we can’t do anything, even if we want to, right?”

His son turned, braid finished, taking it in his hands, playing with it. Avoiding his father’s gaze after his wistful question.

Buccaneer nodded.

“Sometimes you can’t do anything, sometimes you shouldn’t do anything, and sometimes, you just should be a friend and listen to what people say, ask if they are alright and do what you can.”

And finally, the blue eyes of his son, so much looking like his mothers, found his. He smiled at Valentin, who smiled back slightly. Before he could say something, the boy threw his arms around him in a tight hug.

“Thank you, Dad!”

He hugged him back just as tight.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite you to leave:
> 
> _Short comments_   
>  _Long comments_   
>  _Questions_   
>  _Constructive criticism_   
>  _Reader-reader interaction_
> 
> I reply to every comment, though it sometimes takes me a day, or two.
> 
> I thank you for reading this fic of mine through to the end. I appreciate all comments and kudos and should you want to get into direct contact with me [this is my tumblr](http://illidria.tumblr.com/)


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